I think to Live—may be a Bliss

I think to Live—may be a Bliss
To those who dare to try—
Beyond my limit to conceive—
My lip—to testify—

I think the Heart I former wore
Could widen—till to me
The Other, like the little Bank
Appear—unto the Sea—

I think the Days—could every one
In Ordination stand—
And Majesty—be easier—
Than an inferior kind—

No numb alarm—lest Difference come—
No Goblin—on the Bloom—
No start in Apprehension's Ear,
No Bankruptcy—no Doom—

But Certainties of Sun—
Midsummer—in the Mind—
A steadfast South—upon the Soul—
Her Polar time—behind—

The Vision—pondered long—
So plausible becomes
That I esteem the fiction—real—
The Real—fictitious seems—

How bountiful the Dream—
What Plenty—it would be—
Had all my Life but been Mistake
Just rectified—in Thee

    -F757, J646, Fascicle 34, 1863


Here are two possible interpretations of this poem by David Preest:

"It would not be impossible to read this poem as Emily’s thinking what her life might be like if she at last turned to Christ (= ‘Thee’ in the last line), but the poem perhaps makes more complete sense if, as Judith Farr suggests, we take the ‘Thee’ to be that beloved master whom Emily could not marry. She would then be saying: "I think to live with you would be a bliss if we dared to try it ( ‘allowed’ is a significant variant for ‘who dare’ in line 2). Each day would be counted as a special day like a Saint’s day, and it would be easier to feel like a king than a commoner. I would never start apprehensively through hearing some bad news, but my life would be ‘Certainties of Sun.’ I have imagined this life so often that it seems more real than the reality of your absence. How bountiful would be that dream, if it came true and all my past life were some mistake, now put right by you coming to live with me.’ But any elucidation of this poem pales into insignificance before the sustained, majestic sweep of its language.”

I like Preest at the end there throwing his hands up at his attempt to elucidate the poem in the face of the actual poetry, succumbing to the “majestic sweep” of the poem’s language.

The first interpretation is an inspiring idea, especially if you are Christ-driven. And why not? I also see many references to Christ in Dickinson’s work. It would be interesting to study a deep dive into Dickinson’s very peculiar relationship with Christ. I'm sure there is one or two out there. If anyone knows of one, please let me know.

The problem for me with the second idea here, the “Master narrative”, as per Farr, is, perhaps, that word “Master,” and the idea that there is some man out there that Emily wishes she could be with irks me. We know she had deep feelings for a few good men, and used the word "Master" herself, so its fair game. But I still don't love it. Unless Dickinson specifically uses it, I’d vote to drop the word Master.

So who is the “Thee” then, if not Christ, or some other Master?

Because a poem is an experience between the poet and the reader, I propose that the reader of the poem is the truest object of the poem. So let us assume that Dickinson sewed these poems into packets to preserve them for her future readers, meaning, most intimately, you and me. It is possible Dickinson only meant to be seen by Sue and family, but I don’t think so. (Isn’t it telling that Emily never alerted Sue to the fascicles existence? Sue nursed Emily when she died and could have given her the poems then. She didn’t. Emily’s sister Lavinia found them in a drawer.) This very poem, in one of dozens of little sewn together books, was preserved for whom, if not a future reader? Therefore, goes my logic, the Thee is thee. So we read the poems as if we were the requisite Other of this poem. And, without doubt, on the most immediate level, we are. Without our eyes the poem doesn’t exist.

Let's take this poem stanza by stanza. This is going to be a long reflection because this poem can be read in several different ways, often against itself. I made some wonderful discoveries inside the poem, but it took some work. If you are looking for an easier take, stick with Preest and Farr above. 

Okay, stanza by stanza:

I think to Live—may be a Bliss
To those who dare to try—
Beyond my limit to conceive—
My lip—to testify—

One of the joys of a Dickinson poem is the way they build meaning upon meaning, word by word and line by line. So let's start with just the first half of the first line, I think to Live. That’s Emily, alright, who certainly lived through thought. You could actually stop the poem there and it would still be a worthy fragment. 

But then there's the rest of the line: I think to Live—may be a Bliss. Emily famously wrote “I dwell in possibility.” The possibility here, well worth dwelling upon, is that living may be a Bliss.

To those who dare to try—

This feels like a challenge doesn't it? It's a dare!

Beyond my limit to conceive—

The bliss, because it requires "Thee," is “beyond limit to conceive-” You can’t conceive of it on your own. It is more than just “thought.” So, on one hand, the bliss is beyond conception, but also, it is beyond your limit. That is, it is only beyond your own limit, that you can conceive, with Other. 

So there is a double possible meaning here to the line following this, depending on how you read it.  The following line may be saying it’s beyond my lips to testify, because I can't conceive of it, or, it may be saying, my lip will testify, because beyond my limit I've experienced Bliss. It’s both, beyond our ability to say, and, once the self has been “rectified” with Thee and conceived beyond limit, the the lip may testify.

Nobody could multiply meaning like Dickinson could. There are other readings I can make of this stanza too. The dashes are part of what allow this to happen, which is one of the many reasons they are such a subtly powerful form of punctuation. The effect of this is an opening up of the poem up to the reader’s imagination, thus, opening it up to the reader’s self, to the conception beyond limit.

I think you can make a pretty solid argument that Dickinson is saying that true Bliss is beyond the testifying, but, at the same time, this very poem is testament. It's in the majestic sweep of language. It's both at once.

I know we have a tendency to want to “pick a lane” when it comes to parsing a poem, but Dickinson, due to her multi-track mind and deft use of language, just keeps opening up more lanes.

I think the Heart I former wore
Could widen—till to me
The Other, like the little Bank
Appear—unto the Sea—

How about the weird future-past tense verb combo here? I think the heart I former wore (past tense) could widen (future possibility.) It’s as if the heart is in mid-air, neither there, yet, nor any longer here.

If the Self dares, then “The Other” would “Appear unto the Sea” The Little bank on the other side would widen to become “unto the Sea”. That’s just such a mind-bending transformation through words. I've noticed Dickinson likes the ambiguity of the word "unto." 

There are other ways I can read these lines too. The meanings widen with each reading, each voyage back and forth between shores, each pass between Emily’s bank of meaning and mine.

I think the Days—could every one
In Ordination stand—
And Majesty—be easier—
Than an inferior kind—

("Ordination time, come on! Let’s have an ordination” To the tune of celebration by Cool and the Gang.)

Yes, Preest is right, the majesty of the language in this poem is fitting for the majesty of the subject matter. If this poem seems to be reaching for Other for validation, it has, regardless, already achieved that validation in the language itself. If this poem is saying every day may be a majestic ordination, it is proving this to be true by couching this statement in a majestic language.

Does this ordinate majesty necessitate an Other? Yes, and no. The Self is also Other. See Emily’s mirror poems for more on this.

“Majesty be easier than an inferior kind.” Every line of Dickinson’s appears to have some little “trick” to it, or a kind of a riddle. What does this one have? What would an inferior “kind” be. Something unkind? Something less kind? Not only does every line of this poem seem to have multiple angles, so does each word. Kind may mean “sort” or “caring” or “kindred," or, as I think it does here, all three at once.

No numb alarm—lest Difference come—
No Goblin—on the Bloom—
No start in Apprehension's Ear,
No Bankruptcy—no Doom—

Bum bum BUM. In this stanza the “”m”s come in, and with them, some doubt.  The internal rhyme of numb/alarm/come/bloom and doom is strong.

We are seeing in the sound itself a kind of red flag. Difference is cause for an alarm? The little shore turning into the Sea seems so idea, but if we are all just “Sea,” then where is our shore? Dickinson is both grieving and retreating here, I believe. She is sounding the very alarm she is speaking of, you might say. There is a goblin here, but maybe, in Dickinson’s goth imagination, a goblin might not be so unwanted. This bend in the poem, if there indeed is one, also puts the “apprehension” into question. Perhaps apprehension is necessary. And bankruptcy? And even Doom?

Dickinson has flexed this idea elsewhere, like in 733, "Internal differences/ where the meanings are” and in F723, where "white sustenance is taken from despair."

Dickinson could also be saying here that alarm itself is what brings differences. Without alarm our differences would not be a problem and therefore,

But Certainties of Sun—
Midsummer—in the Mind—
A steadfast South—upon the Soul—
Her Polar time—behind—

Ah, look how Dickinson retains just a touch of the UM feeling of the previous stanza with Midsummer. She's so masterful with her use of sound.

That “But certainties of the sun" could mean, “No more goblin, no more Doom, but only certainties of the sun.” But, that “But” could also be a negation. But for Certainties of the sun would we have our differences, our own space, our sustaining despair. The Dickinson poem so often shows both sides of the equation. You learn to look for these "differences," lest you get too caught up with one side or the other.

(It’s so so tricky with Dickinson. There is no other way to get underneath the multiplicities of meaning without treading in confusing waters. I feel Preest’s intrepidation of elucidation!)

I know that I’m still only treading the surface of this poem, but still, I know I’m swimming in it.

The Vision—pondered long—
So plausible becomes
That I esteem the fiction—real—
The Real—fictitious seems—

Here is another stanza that could be read against itself. Is the “Vision” heartbreaking because its not real? Or is it liberating because it is fiction?

There is a sense of fiction’s victory over the real here. And yet, and yet. It still depends on a real connection outside the bounds of fiction…

How bountiful the Dream—
What Plenty—it would be—
Had all my Life but been Mistake
Just rectified—in Thee

How bountiful the Dream. (There’s that M again.) Is it the Real that is bountiful, or, actually, the dream itself?

It may seem like sophistry, but I even see a double meaning in “What plenty it would be if all my life had been a mistake." Like, I embrace the mistake, and it is plenty, and in you completing the circuit, now, by reading this poem, this mistake is rectified.

I know this reading goes against the surface reading, which says the dream would come true and be plenty if the mistake of my life was rectified (made upright) by you. But Dickinson is wily. Words like “rectified” go against her “slant” nature.

Nonetheless, I do think she is acknowledging here the need for love, for the reader, from the  reader. It’s just that we, if we love Emily, love the mistake, the little bank, the nobody at odds finding meaning in “difference.”

     -/)dam Wade l)eGraff